Before the Scarlet Dawn (22 page)

In the corner near the hearth sat a wide bench. While Eliza kneaded bread dough and Fiona stirred the stew in the cast iron pot over the fire, Darcy sat quietly with her rag doll cradled under her arms.

“She’s a pretty child, Mrs. Morgan,” Halston said. He gripped the handle of the cider-filled pewter mug.

With a smile, Eliza glanced over at her child. “Indeed she is, sir.”

“She takes after you. A beauty she shall be one day.”

Eliza pressed the dough harder into the flour. She understood what he meant when he lifted his eyes to her face. “I agree a beauty she shall be, but Darcy looks nothing like me. She has her papa’s eyes. Her hair is lighter now but will change to a rich brown in time, like Hayward’s.”

“It is unfortunate he is not home to see her grow. I fear this revolution shall keep many a man away—for years, if not forever in death. I have heard of the losses on the battlefields. And what is even more deplorable are the penal ships.”

Eliza’s heart skipped a beat. She looked over at Halston, still kneading the dough, digging her fingers deeper into it. “What may they be, Mr. Halston?” she asked in a worried tone.

“Foul jails aboard British ships, overcrowded with Sons of Liberty. Each is a disease-infested, rotting hulk.”

Eliza stopped kneading her dough. “Reverend Hopewell spoke of the injustices of the prisons at church a few Sundays ago. He said prisoners have died in the thousands from disease and hunger, more than the men on the battlefields.”

“What he said is true. The intense heat of summer causes them to suffocate. And in winter, with no blankets, they either freeze to death or die from pneumonia. Nothing can stop outbreaks of disease, especially yellow fever.”

The women in the church had prayed fervently that Sunday, with bowed heads and hands gripped together so hard one could hear the trembling of their souls. If only they could send aid—food, clothing, medicine, and blankets. But it was not to be, for the British High Command and the prison commissaries held a stern hand against all compassion, all pleas for mercy.

Halston ran his finger over the rim of the mug. “And there are not only ships that house prisoners, but they are using churches and warehouses to hold captured Patriots.”

“Churches?” She pushed the dough forward and then tossed it into the pan. “If I were a prisoner, that is where I would wish to be. What better place than the house of the Lord? But then, God is everywhere, is He not?”

“You have quite the spiritual outlook on things. I question why God allows men to suffer as they do.”

“What decision one man makes affects another. If we all chose to live by the Lord’s command to do to others as we would have them do to us, then there would be less suffering in the world.”

Halston grinned. “I shall not debate religion with you today, ma’am. I haven’t the energy for it. But I do have a desire for that stew Fiona is tending.”

After eating a hearty meal, Eliza put Darcy to bed and excused Fiona to wait on Addison. She hoped Halston might tell her news to lighten the burden she carried as they sat at the kitchen table in front of the fire. But when she asked if the war would come to an end soon, and if he had heard anything of her husband, he had nothing to offer.

He then said, “If I told you that I must fulfill my duty to God and country, would you be sorry?”

She looked over at him. “I am sorry for any man who faces war. You intend to leave soon?” Unable to avoid the tinge of regret she felt when their eyes held each other’s for too long, she stood from the table and gathered dishes.

Halston reached over and touched her fingertips. “If you were to ask me to stay . . . I would.”

Eliza paused and then moved her hand away. “That would be wrong.” Shocked that he would make such a suggestion, she set the dishes on the sideboard for washing and tried to gather herself. When she turned back, she saw the pained look in his eyes. She refused to give in, and stepped away.

“Mama.” Darcy stood in the entry.

“Why are you up, darling? Has something frightened you?”

Darcy pointed to the window, and then hurried over to Eliza and nudged into her legs. “I see. Well, the storm is gone, little one.”

“Eliza,” Halston said, a hint of agitation that their conversation had been interrupted. “Would you at least permit me to write to you? I have no wife—no pledged sweetheart. Not even a mother or sister to write to. Letters are precious to men at war.”

“It would be inappropriate.”

He stood and faced her. “Why? We are friends, are we not?”

“Yes. But I belong to Hayward.”

“And he would not approve.”

“No, he would not.”

“Surely, he cannot object to our friendship, and I am sure he would be grateful that I’ve come in such foul weather to lend you a hand.”

Without an immediate reply, Eliza picked Darcy up and settled her on her hip. She was her shield between Halston and her, a reminder she was a devoted mother and wife. And although her gesture meant to warn him that he treaded where he should not, Halston’s eyes held no penance.

“I did not mean to sound ungrateful. I do not know how I would have gotten Addison in the house if not for your help.”

A swift smile came and went on Halston’s face. “I should check on the horses and your mild-mannered cow.”

“I must put Darcy back to bed, and we will say our prayers together for Hayward. She likes praying for him.”

Darcy snuggled her head against Eliza’s shoulder, her curls tumbling over her cheek. Halston nodded, gathered his hat and gloves, and drew on his greatcoat.

He paused at the door. “The snow is deep and night is falling. I will stay in Addison’s cabin the night, if you have no objection.” Then he strode out into the dull gray twilight.

“I am a Christian, Fiona. I cannot send a man out in the snow and cold at night when the river path is covered and the wolves howl with hunger. It is the right thing for me to do. Mr. Halston is our neighbor. He deserves my hospitality.”

Fiona frowned. “You are right, I suppose, to be charitable. I just don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“You are imagining things.” Eliza wrung out the cloth in the porcelain bowl and dabbed Addison’s forehead. “Oh, his fever has worsened. I will stay with him. You are worn through and need sleep.”

Lifting a weary hand to her eyes, Fiona stepped to the door. “You will wake me if you need me?”

“Of course. Now go.”

By midnight, Addison grew worse. In addition to the fever, his breathing became more labored, and his skin took on a bluish tint. Eliza moistened his mouth and cleared away the mucus that clung to his tongue. Delirium caused him to toss his head back and forth and mumble words she could not make out. And when he opened his eyes and looked up at her, tears filled them, and a fearful look came over him.

Eliza hurried to Fiona’s bedside and woke her. Together they sponged Addison’s feverish body with cool water. Nothing seemed to ease his suffering. By dawn, he was speaking to his mother, happy she stood at the foot of his bed and beckoned him. An hour later, after whispering the name of his Savior, he breathed out his last breath.

Stunned to have lost him, Eliza stood and went into the kitchen. She wept for a while in front of the fire, then dried her eyes. She had to be strong. She thought of Addison in Heaven, free from all worldly woes. She could not cry in front of Halston, would not allow him to see her deep despair. He would attempt to comfort her, and if she did not steel herself against her sorrow, she knew she would welcome his arms.

Donning her cloak, she plunged through the snow toward the cabin and told him the news. She waited at the threshold while he pulled on his boots, cloak, and hat. He followed her back to the house. The clouds were moving off to the east, and the sun was pouring down from a blue sky. They wrapped the body in canvas, and Halston carried it outside. Icicles dripped along the edge of the roof. To a snow-shrouded field he took the body over the back of his horse, with Eliza trudging behind him. She insisted Fiona stay behind with Darcy. It took some effort to lay Addison to rest in the cold ground.

“When I am able to travel to Grace Church again, I will ask Reverend Hopewell to come bless this ground.” She said a little prayer, and when she turned away, Halston lifted her at her waist to the back of his stallion and took her home.

22

I
n time the snow melted. Streams flooded, and the Potomac swelled its banks in springtime. Summer brought thunderstorms and drought. Yet Eliza’s garden flourished and they did not starve. The fruits of autumn were abundant, with a bounty of apples and pumpkins. Farmers harvested their wheat, brought it to the mill, and supplied River Run with enough flour to last the winter.

On a spring day, from the edge of the hilltop that overlooked the river, Eliza gazed down at the deep, blue water. Swift currents tumbled over rocks, washed over sandbars, and swirled around the trees that lined the mossy slopes.

“I will trust in your protection, Lord, that the shadow of your mighty wing will cover my child. I am afraid of being here alone without Hayward. Please protect him.” She paused, cautious of what her lips wished to confess. “I am troubled in my mind and heart, for I do not know whether he is living or dead.”

Fiona called out to her while holding Darcy’s hand to keep her from following her mother. “Come away, Eliza. You are too close to the edge. ’Tis dangerous.”

“You can see how vast the gorge is from up here,” Eliza called back. “There are signs of spring. Green and crimson buds are on the trees.”

She gathered her skirts and followed the trail that led down the hill to a level plain. Fiona met her with a smile, and Eliza took Darcy’s hand and led the way along the path where dogwoods and rhododendron grew. Sunlight sparkled through the branches, and she paused and thought of her husband.

A fortnight ago, she had sent two letters by post rider. “I hope your letters to Mr. Morgan will reach him soon,” Fiona said. “The post rider’s horse looked poorly.”

“I’ve decided to no longer worry whether he will answer. There may be reasons why he cannot. What matters is that he should receive word from home.”

“You say that, my girl, but I know better. How can you not worry?”

Eliza put her arm around Fiona’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You understand me so well. And I love you for it.”

Along the trail, purple crocus peeked through a patch of green under the shade of the elms. She paused, leaned forward, and admired them. “Are they not lovely, Darcy? Come, you may pick them if you wish.” The tiny hands gripped a bloom and tore it away. “Here, let me help you, my darling.”

Nature had a way of lifting Eliza’s spirits. She felt closer to her Creator here, more than within any four walls made by man’s hands. Her nearness to Him gave her pause to ask for Hayward’s safety. She thought of the Hope Valley so far away, and how he had come to her rescue upon his horse with his boarhound striding alongside him. Visions of the vicarage where she grew up came to her as well.

“Remember how the spring wildflowers peppered the hills and meadows back home?” Fiona said. “And oh, the heather on the moors!”

“Sometimes I miss them,” Eliza said.

“Yes, but it was too windy in the valley. I am glad to have come here, and I’ll not pause to regret the past.”

“I am remembering Papa.” A tear slipped from Eliza’s eye, and she brushed it away. “I cannot help it. I miss him so much.”

With a sigh, Fiona looped her arm through Eliza’s. “Well, let us not forget God’s promise. He shall wipe away all tears from our eyes, and there will be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain. It keeps a grieving spirit sane.”

As they neared the house, a buck appeared at the edge of the woods, and several does wandered out into the sunlit meadow. Eliza shaded her eyes. “I think we have enough venison to last until October. I am glad Hayward insisted I learn how to shoot his long rifle. I’ve never killed anything in my life, but come autumn I will need to fell a deer.”

“There are turkeys in the woods too, and wild raspberries to pick.”